Jackie Collins, page 40
that's all that mattered.
"I've decided to give you extra coaching," Joy announced one day, her
watery eyes darting around the room.
"Can I afford it?" he asked, half jokingly.
"Probably not," she replied crisply. "But you'll pay me back .
one day."
He began visiting her rundown house way up in the Hollywood Hills on a
regular basis, and in her dusty living room he got to do anything he
wanted. Joy Byron had bookshelves piled high with every play ever
written, it was better than a trip to the library. She allowed him to
indulge himself-reading with him, giving him pertinent advice on
diction, posture, timing, makeup, the best lighting and camera
angles.
"This information is invaluable," she said. "You, my dear boy, are
going to be big."
He wasn't intimidated by her. "Hey-I know that," he replied cockily.
"Good," she said, unfazed by his arrogance. "Confidence is
everything."
When she came on to him he was taken aback, the woman had to be at
least sixty-five. He quickly made up a fiance'e, a true love, waiting
patiently for him in his hometown.
Joy did not believe him, but she backed off anyway, remarking that she
had plenty of lovers and certainly didn't need the likes of him.
He wondered if it would make any difference in their studenti teacher
relationship. It didn't.
Annie was not pleased. The only time he ever saw her was in class and
she'd taken to ignoring him.
"What's the matter?" he asked one day. "You're treatin' me like I got
a bad case of B.O."
"You used me," she said, turning on him full of pent-up anger. "All
you wanted was an introduction to Joy, and now that you're her pet
project nobody hears from you. I don't appreciate being used, Nick."
"Hey-what's wrong with me getting' everything I can out of this?"
Annie refused to be placated. "You're kissing her ass.
It didn't take long to realize most of the other students felt the same
way. Well, fuck em. If they didn't like it that was their problem.
He fully intended to learn everything he needed to know.
Joy announced she was putting on a student production of On the
Wateffront. Naturally she gave Nick the coveted Marlon Brando role.
This did not go down well with the rest of the class, who resented him
even more.
So far Joy had advised him not to seek out an agent or manager.
"Many important people come to my shows," she informed him. "I'll find
you the right agent. Follow my guidance, dear boy, and we can't
fail."
That was okay with him, he had no desire to traipse around agents'
offices getting a series of turndowns.
DeVille was still living in his apartment, somehow she'd never gotten
around to moving out. He didn't mind, it meant he didn't have to go
looking for sex-she was always ready and available. Occasionally he
asked her to read with him. She wasn't half bad and soon started
dropping hints about maybe accompanying him to class.
That, he didn't need. He was having trouble enough-he could just
imagine what would happen if he showed up with DeVille on his arm.
As for Manny Manfred and Glamour Limousines, he'd never gone back. As
long as he had enough money, who needed to work for a living?
Cyndra had called to complain she never saw him. "I'm going to be
playing Vegas," she said, full of enthusiasm. "Reece has me booked to
sing at one of the best hotels. Will you fly out?"
He'd assured her he would, but he still hadn't gotten around to it.
He was too busy putting all his energy into preparing for his upcoming
role.
In between rehearsals he continued to spend most of his time at Joy's
house. The night before the big event she came on to him stronger than
ever. "I bring people luck, Nick," she announced grandly, her bony
hand hovering dangerously near his thigh.
"Yeah?" he said warily, backing off as usual.
Her watery eyes bored into his. "If I told you about some of the men
I've slept with, famous men . . . powerful men. They all claim I
bring something . . . special into their lives."
By this time her hands were all over him.
He knew there was no way he could get it up, and yet he couldn't risk
alienating her. "Joy, you're a very attractive woman," he said,
speaking fast while desperately removing her hand from his leg. "But
like I said-I got this fiancee, an' we promised we'd never cheat on
each other."
Joy muttered something lethal under her breath and threw him out.
He drove back to his apartment hoping he hadn't made a mistake.
Hell, no-gotta have some principles.
When he arrived home DeVille was sitting in a chair facing the door.
Next to her were two packed suitcases.
"Going somewhere?" he asked, throwing off his jacket.
She smiled a trifle sheepishly. "I'm finally moving out. Remember, we
discussed it a couple of monffis ago?"
He threw open the fridge and surveyed the meager contents. DeVille was
a lousy housekeeper. "I didn't ask you to go," he said, reaching for a
can of beer.
"What happened?" she'd asked furiously.
"We gotta get you more experience before we hit the big time," Reece
explained. "This is a fine start, honey."
Reece talked a good game. First the demo recordings which failed to
take place. Now Vegas and this crummy place.
Cyndra told herself she shouldn't blame him-at least he was trying.
But he'd made such big promises and look where they'd got her.
When they returned to their motel room she'd refused to speak to him.
Now he was sitting in the audience like nothing had happened, expecting
her to join him.
Well, screw him, he could think again.
She narrowed her eyes and checked out the table. At least he was
alone.
Hmm. . . he probably wanted to apologize.
Hmm. . . maybe she'd give him a second chance.
He got a real buzz performing before an audience-a sensation he'd never
felt before. Better than sex-almost orgasmic in a way. Jeer!
This was it. Give him a steady diet of applause and he'd be a happy
man.
Joy hovered at the side of the stage, encouraging, criticizing,
whispering in his ear every time he came off. Do this. Do that. More
gestures. Use your voice.
Fuck you, lady, I'm flying! I don't need your help.
And the audience loved him. They fucking loved him! Marlon, move
over-Nick Angelo is here to stay!
By the end of the show he was on fire, adrenaline pumping through his
veins like pure heroin.
Joy was pleased. She had a big smirk on her face, especially when half
the audience came piling backstage to congratulate her.
He wished he knew who was important and who wasn't, it wouldn't do to
waste his charm on the wrong person. He looked to Joy for guidance.
She was deluged by people.
"Not bad," Annie said grudgingly, passing by with a group. "We're
going to the Hamlet on Sunset. Want to join us?"
Hamburger Hamlet was not exactly what he had in mind to cele She pushed
back her pale red hair. "I know, Nick, but I've stayed long enough."
"Where's your next stop?"
She lowered her eyes, almost afraid to tell him. "I met this guy.
Funny, but he wasn't at all jealous. "Yeah? What guy?"
"A producer."
He snapped the can open. "A real producer? Or some Hollywood
phony?"
"He's asked me to live with him."
How come you never mentioned him before?"
"It didn't seem necessary.
Nick wasn't used to being walked out on, but so what-there was no way
he was begging her to stay. If she wanted to get conned by some
would-be producer it was her problem.
That night he slept restlessly. He had a hunch that starting tomorrow
everything was going to be different.
"Come over here, darling'," Reece said, patting the empty seat beside
him.
Cyndra hesitated, she had no intention of sitting with Reece at the
small round table in the cocktail lounge of the busy downtown casino.
The night before, she'd joined him and two of his so-called
"friends."
As soon as she'd sat down he got up and vanished for over an hour.
The men had started making suggestive remarks and trying to grope
her.
She soon put them straight. When Reece returned he was furious.
"Those were important guys," he told her. "Real important.
What's the matter? You dumber than you look?"
His words had stung like a slap. How dare he talk to her in such a
way-he never had before. But since they'd been in Vegas he'd changed,
and it wasn't for the better. First of all there was the matter of the
hotel where she was to perform. Reece had assured her it was going to
be one of the big ones. "Which one?" she'd asked, imagining her debut
was to be at the Sands or the Desert Inn.
"It's a surprise," he'd said mysteriously, not looking her in the
eye.
Some surprise. A downtown dump full of hookers and hustlers with only
a piano player to back her-a surly Puerto Rican who could barely speak
English and was usually half drunk.
brate his triumph. Plus Annie was really beginning to piss him off Why
couldn't she tell him he was fantastic, what was with this "not bad"
shit? She was such a downer.
"Maybe," he mumbled. If nothing better comes along.
Joy beckoned him. "Nick, come over here-I want you to meet someone.
The someone turned out to be Ardmore Castle-a small time agent well
known for his penchant for good-looking young actors.
"Hello, Nick." Ardmore had anxious eyes, plump jowls and a hungry
expression. He was chasing fifty.
Joy moved away. Nick nodded, scanning the room. Ardmore Castle's
reputation preceded him. Maybe Joy figured if she couldn't have him,
then Ardmore was in with a chance.
The agent fixed him with a lecherous stare. "I enjoyed your
performance.
"Uh . . thanks."
"Very macho."
"Yeah, well, it's written that way.
"You brought something special to it."
Major eye contact. Jeer! Where was Joy when he needed her?
Ardmore cleared his throat. "Perhaps you'd care to join me at my house
later. I'm having a few friends drop by."
"Gee . . . sounds great, but I got a date."
"Bring him," Ardmore said boldly.
"It's a her," he responded quickly.
Ardmore realized he was getting the brush. He pursed his lips. "Suit
yourself."
"I intend to."
"Very bold. For an unknown."
Joy descended on him, accompanied by a hatchet-faced middleaged woman
in a man's pinstripe jacket and black pants. The woman brushed past
Ardmore as if he didn't exist.
"Hello, Frances dear," Ardmore said, determined to be acknowledged.
She blew cigarette smoke in his face, barely nodding in his
direction.
Joy grabbed Nick's arm in a proprietary way. "Nick dear, meet Frances
Cavendish, the casting director." She said "casting director" in
meaningful tones. He got the message.
Frances didn't bother with pleasantries. She was a strong-jawed woman
with an I take no prisoners demeanor. She was also fast-talking and to
the point. "My office. Tomorrow. , she said, flicking a business
card at him. "Might have something for you."
Deftly Joy pJucked the card from his hand. "We'll be there, Frances
dear," she said, smiling sweetly.
"Don't need you, Joy. I'm sure Nick can walk and talk on his own."
What was this little scene? He felt uncomfortably like a piece of meat
lying on a slab while the dogs sniffed around deciding who'd get
lucky.
Ardmore expressed his disapproval. "You need an agent," he said.
"Someone who'll protect your interests."
"Yes," Frances said dryly. "Someone who'll allow you to keep your
pants on.
Nick took a deep breath, snatched Frances Cavendish's card back from
Joy and mumbled, "I'm outta here."
"Where are you going?" Joy asked, hands fluttering.
"Gotta get some fresh air. See ya."
And he was gone before any of them could object.
ature took on the role of tour guide, deciding that Lauren had to see
everything there was to see in Los Angeles.
"Can we take a break?" Lauren begged, after they'd been to Disneyland,
Universal City and Magic Mountain all in one day.
Nature looked surprised. "What for? You're only here a few dayswe
gotta do everything we can. Besides, I've never been to any of these
places myself. It's a kick!"
While they were out exploring, Emerson lay out by the pool working on
his suntan and reading scripts.
"He's looking for a movie for us to do together," Nature confided.
Sure, Lauren thought.
Every day around noon the rock star's entourage arrived at the house
and stayed until he threw them out-usually not until two or three in
the morning. They laughed at his jokes, assured him he was the best
thing since Elvis and freebied all over the house.
The pack was led by his manager, Sidney Fishbourne-a lanky man in his
forties with shoulder-length frizzy black hair.
Sidney was usually accompanied by April-a thirty-year-old married
redhead he referred to as his executive assistant, although everyone
knew she was his mistress.
The rest of the entourage consisted of Emerson's clothes designer, his
makeup artist, his hair-stylist and his personal publicist.
The group spent most of their time discussing Emerson's image for his
upcoming world tour.
"You gotta get wilder," Sidney insisted. "Break a few guitars, throw
stuff around the stage, get the girls screaming."
"No fuckin' way," Emerson said adamantly. "I'm not doin' all that
sixties shit again."
"He should be involved in a cause," his publicist said, twirling her
worry beads. "Perhaps something to do with nuclear power or the
environment."
"It's all in the clothes," his designer insisted. "No more black
leather. I think suits."
"Suits are old," Sidney snapped. "We gotta start appealing to a
younger audience."
His designer persevered. "Sophistication is very in."
"Who gives a shit," Emerson said flatly, and that was the end of the
suit discussion.
Nature complained to Lauren that she felt left out. "All we ever talk
about is im. What about me? I'm famous too."
"You married a rock star," Lauren pointed out. "His first interest is
obviously going to be himself, especially with a world tour coming
up.
